


For God and Country (Just don't ask which country)

by gemnoire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Spy!Grantaire, Unrequited e/R - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:03:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemnoire/pseuds/gemnoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pay no attention to the winecask in the corner who hears everything and sees all, he's just a failed art student, part-time revolutionary and full-time drunkard. Except Grantaire was none of those things. Well, apart from drunk, that much at least was true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For God and Country (Just don't ask which country)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Les Mis kinkmeme prompt (which I can't for the life of me find again) which called for Grantaire as a spy. 
> 
> This is not a crossover really, the only bit from Sharpe I have stolen is Lord Pumphrey, and it requires absolutely no knowledge of the series to read. 
> 
> Apologies for my somewhat rusty French (and the fact my netbook hates accents) - translations provided at the end.
> 
> Also I kinda suck at tagging

Mornings, Grantaire had long-since hypothesised, were a torture send down from the heavens to torment those poor humble souls still left to walk the earth. Not, he ammended peering out at the sun through the single tiny window the sleeping area of his lodgings possessed, that it was currently morning. The bright shaft of light valiantly piercing through the smog and grime to burn deep through into his retinas and drag him from his slumber nonetheless told him that the day had past its zenith and that the sky's bright orb had begun it's slow downward march to be replaced by the stars' rich tapestry of twilight.

It was not unusual, at least during the spring and summer days - the winter sun being far too low to penetrate the high window of the tiny attic space he occupied - to be woken in such a manner. Nor was it unusual for him to curse great Apollo's light as it slowly dragged him from Morpheus' embrace and returned awareness to him of the price he must pay for the company of Dionysus the evening prior. Not unlike the burn he received from the eyes of his own Apollo, as he laid him low with a look and rose to new heights of revolutionary fervour just to prove the point to his wayward disciple, a reaction by now both sought and hated with equal measure.

No, what was unusual in today’s waking was the suddenness with which his awareness returned, not the slow crawl back to consciousness but an awaking with a startle, as an almost animalistic instinct told him something his other senses had yet to register. The same instinct brought him out of the bed and to his feet, nearly before his higher conscience, if it could be called that, had finished wrestling with blacksmiths currently trying to hammer into some strange and twisted shape what was left of his mind.

The creaking of floorboards emerging from around the corner of his tiny L-shaped chamber told him that he was not alone. His visitor, if it truly was that and not some stray animal that had wandered in by accident, was no doubt waiting for him among the remnants of easels and half-finished paintings strewn through that part in his lodgings, all that remained of his pretence of being an artist. In truth, there were likely more bottles there than of pigments and paints, although both were equally used, dry and empty.

Wincing even as he stood, he grabbed for the poker from the small fire in his room, the closest item he could wield as a weapon even if the metal was brittle and the form already bent after more than one drunken mishap.

“Qui và?” he shouted, his voice loud to his own ear and unpleasant on his already tender head. If it was one of his friends, and it was not uncommon occurrence for them to let themselves in should he not answer their knocking, they would answer. It was well known among them that his door was rarely locked, and his flat contained little of value (at least that they would recognise as such). He wished therefore to give any of the Amis a chance to identify themselves – even if it was more usual should they find him slumbering at this hour to wake him with little sympathy to the pain they were inflicting and, in some cases, more than a little mischief.

It was not perhaps, he reflected, the best move to alert his visitor to his wakeful state should said person meant him ill. Although if this was the case, his sleeping form would have offered them ample opportunity to exact whatever they wished on him. More likely, he told himself as he rounded the corner, poker held tense, it was a child or vagrant looking for food or shelter. In which case the emergence of the lodgings occupier, weapon in hand, should be more than enough to frighten them off.

“Va t'en... oh it's you,” the poker slipped quickly from his hand as he recognised the well-dressed man currently occupying the sole armchair in the pitiful excuse for a sitting area. He was, Grantaire noticed sourly, partaking of the brandy that Grantaire had been hoping to imbibe himself today.

“Finally awake I see,” the man arched a perfectly manicured eye-brow at him as he took a sip of his drink.

“Please, do come in and help yourself to my hospitality,” Grantaire bowed mockingly, “I am but your humble host, whatever you desire of mine is yours.”

“Since, as your employer, I am paying for you to remain in bed and board, not to mention liquor. Then yes, I rather do think it is all mine." 

“I had believed I was under the pay and employ of His Majesty, or does your Lordship also have ambitions in that direction?”

“Do not test me, R,” lightening quick his Lordship had his wrist in a vice like grip, pulling him down and off-balance to his knees. “I am the sole reason you are here and not rotting away in some misbegotten fever-ridden corner of the world. Do not for a moment imagine that there are not others like you that I could use for my purposes if I so needed.”

The worst of it was that it was true. For some reason, the man had seen something in a young staff officer with perfect French, and sharp eyes which saw too much, ears which heard everything and who drank, well, anything. Something that is beyond his ability to warm his Lordship's bed of course.

Grantaire smirked around the neck of the brandy bottle he'd taken advantage of his current position on the floor to appropriate and licked his lips suggestively, “ah but would any of the others be quite so skilled in their manipulation of the French... tongue”

Grantaire could not deny that he was playing a dangerous game, but he could not bring himself to care for the consequences. Baiting dangerous men, it seemed, was a temptation he was little able to resist. Once maybe, he may have feared the consequences but he had long since been flayed open by the sharpest of looks from bright Apollo's face. They had cut deep into his soul and exposed him to the first time to what it meant to burn under the fire of true belief.

No, now the glare of his Lordship, Lord Pumphrey, and his petty Foreign Office plots held little fear in comparison to the terror he at the idea of his friends finding out his true purpose. If they would not immediately kill him, then certainly they would scorn him, beat him and cast him out as, in their view, that most vile of things: an English monarchist. Although in truth he was neither, he doubted that vagaries of his political leanings nor the intricacies of British national sentiments would have much bearing on their reactions.

Worse, however, than all the scorn of his friend would be that, upon such a revelation, the eyes of their fearless leader would look upon him not with disgust, as he did now, but genuine hatred. Compared to this, his master could do with him what he willed.

But not today it seemed, as his Lordship let out an amused laugh, “Very skilled your tongue is too, that I will concede. Tell me, do your student friends appreciate it as much as I do?”

Grantaire had little wish to answer this question, some secrets had no need to be see the light and would serve no purpose if they were to do so. As a distraction, he allowed a seductive smirk to appear as he applied his skilled mouth to his bottle. He had little doubts that his employer would sample said talents first hand before the day was out, as was his way when he deigned to render Grantaire a visit.

In truth, Courfeyrac had been more than appreciative of his skills, friendly and open as he was to all those who might wish to warm his bed for a night or even a week, although never more than this. His introduction into the Amis had been greatly eased by the memories of easy laughter, stolen kisses and nights of pleasure. Jehan too, he had seduced to his bed, the young poet with his nervous shy smiles and apologies after that whatever was between them could only be of the body, not the heart. His trust, sorely misplaced, had nonetheless ensured the same in others, his judgement considered sacrosanct. Then, of course, he had seen Enjolras, and even if there had been others who would have been open to the touch of a man, he could not pursue them, not when their leader's fire was so near, drawing him in like a moth to the flame.

“Of course, I am sure they are prefer your mouth is occupied as such than through your words.” Lord Pumphrey continued, voice as silk.

“My words are what they need to be, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Strange, I had heard yours words were to dissuade them from unrest, not to stir it. The drunken cynic who derides revolutionary fervour and tries to disabuse his listeners of notions of change. Or have I been hearing wrong?”

Grantaire shrugged, he knew his mission, he had little need to be reminded of it, “They have supporters and criers aplenty, his... their revolutionary feelings need little encouragement from that quarter. What would one more voice proclaiming the republic add, it would be drowned out by the others, lost in a sea of many. Far more effective to offer a foil, baiting them to their arguments. A man who is of same mind as his audience may well rest on his laurels, one whose audience remains skeptical will be force to reinforce and strengthen his arguments and in doing so ensure that his fervour grows stronger as he tries to disabuse them of their notions and show their foolishness to all. If there is anything to spur a man to action, not just words, it is for someone to tell him he is wrong.”

Or that had been how he started, but now as the hour approaches and the revolution seems more real, an uprising that could, would, take the young lives of those he called friends and feed them to the hungry mistress that is known as Revolution, now his words were said with true sincerity. His warnings of failure, of their likely deaths and ruin, truly heartfelt in the vain hope of dissuading them from their chosen course of action. Alas, these warnings, more so than his previous baiting, have done nothing more than to stir passions higher, as if through sheer force of will alone they could disprove his words.

“So they will rise?”

“With little doubt, all they await is a catalyst, one likely provided by Lamarque's death, once it arrives. God could do worse to stop this inexorable slide than to give him back his health.” He could not help a laugh laced with irony at the thought. Nothing would be more effective to undercut the momentum of events than the recovery of their prospective martyr. Enjolras, no doubt, would be furious as his missed chance to spill his blood for Patria. “But that, from what I here, could truly only occur by the divine hand itself. No, there is no doubt he will expire at his appointed hour, and on the day of his funeral, they will rise and try to rebuild republican France in blood.”

“And, in your inestimable opinion, can they succeed?” Anyone who knew, or at least thought they knew, Grantaire might be surprised that there was no trace of irony in the question. Grantaire may be known as the drunken failed artist now, but before he was a skilled, albeit still mostly drunk, soldier and officer. His perception of force of arms, as much as his perceptions on the motives of men, were what had, to his damnation it would seem, attracted the eyes of his employer to begin with.

So, he bit back his usual retort, the one given to any of the Amis who would ask him, or even if they didn't: that they would all kill themselves on their barricades and really if that was what they wanted, there were better ways to achieve that end. He considered their plans, their men and their arms. He knew more, he suspected, than any others, even among the Amis, of what they had planned barring perhaps their fearless leader himself. His presence at their meetings, his indifference to their cause and the bottle in his hand more often than not led them to say more in his presence than they would any other. His apparently slumbering form not even disturbing those quiet secretive meetings, held between Enjolras and his two most trusted lieutenants, long after the others had left. Pay no attention to the drunk in the corner, his is but a fixture of the room as much as the chairs or the tables.

So he considered truthfully as he could, “it is possible,” he conceded. “If they manage to keep momentum, if they take and hold the city hall before the National Guard can assemble, if they convince some of those Guards to defect, to take up arms with them, if they convince the people it can be won and if the King does not have the will or the courage to put the people of his city to the sword and cannon for their rebellion. But that is a lot of 'Ifs'.”

He paused to drink, his mouth suddenly dry, before he continued, “They have numbers it is true, but those that meet in small groups only, to avoid attention of the guards. The Amis are not the leaders, but they are key in the co-ordination and so know probably more of their fellows than most but the other groups? They do not know their comrades from a stranger in the street. Effective maybe for the secrecy a rebellion requires but not for fighting. And they lack support in the West, it leaves them open, wide open.” Of course they did not, he had been tasked with graining that support and had failed, only in part by design. They had never, following that incident, succeeded in regaining the workers trust he had so easily squandered.

His Lordship smirked, “Excellent, although to be certain, we shall have to ensure that none of your 'Ifs' come to pass, must we not? It would be a tragedy for them to succeed against all the odds after all.” Some of the horror Grantaire felt at the words must have shown on his face, because Pumphrey gave him a patronising smile, like that given to a child exclaiming betrayal when a folly of youth was exposed to the harsh light of reality.

“Come now, you didn't truly think we actually wanted them to succeed. Spreading instability in ones rivals is one thing, but Republicanism is quite another,” Lord Pumphrey actually shuddered at the thought. “It spreads like a virus, and from Republicanism so often flows tyranny and then we would be back to 1804 and facing another Napoleon on the throne and war in Europe.”

In some part of him, a deep thought in his mind that he sought so often to drown out with alcohol, he had known that this was the case. Indeed his masters had even sent him off with a simple missive to 'stir up some trouble but for God's sake don't let them get into a position to actually _do_ anything, whatever you do'. But to know that he was condemning his friends to death was one thing, to hear it said was quiet something else.

His reply, if there ever was any and for the life of him when recalling the incident later, he would not be able to say either way, was cut short however by the sound of footsteps clearly on the stairs.

“Grantaire, ho, Grantaire, t'es chez toi?” Jehan's cheerful voice called up the stairs.

Grantaire did not panic, or so he convinced himself later, but it was close. There was no way to remove Pumphrey from his rooms, and even less to explain his presence. The door was not, probably could not be anymore, he had not checked recently, locked and as previously established, the closed door rarely did anything to dissuade his friends. Indeed there was only one way he could think of to ensure the poet left with the minimum of questions or suspicions, although more than some embarrassment, if successful.

Catching Pumphrey's eye, he carefully reached towards him, telegraphing his intentions clearly, and put his skilled mouth to the use to which it was firmly appreciated.

“Les clochées ont sonnée midi, la soleil monte haute dans la ceil et le heur d'être tourjours au lit a bien écroulée...” Jehan barely paused to knock, a courtesy quickly set aside early in their acquaintance and stopped dead as he entered the room, colour rising to his cheeks.

“Oh, je vous prie de me pardonner, j'ignorais que tu, vous étiez occupé, euh, je veut dire, que tu avais un visiteur,” Jehan stammered, bushing, if possible, even harder than before. “Je voulais te rendre ton Byron. Le voilà même. Je le déposse içi, et, euh, vous laisse tranquille?”

The easily flustered poet seemed captivated by the sight, not helped, Grantaire was certain, by the unabashed way the objects of his attention returned his gaze, the interrupted activity all too clear. Truly, it was a mercy that it Jehan had entered through the door alone and not followed by Courfeyrac, as was more than often the case these days. 

“On te voit ce soir, à la Musain? Ne te sens pas obligée, évidemment, si tu as d'autre choose à faire...” The poor man continued to talk as he backed carefully through the doorway and Grantaire took pity on him.

“Oui, je serrais présent. Tu sais bien je manque rârement la chance d'entendre notre chef dans tout son gloire. Adieu alors, à ce soir,” and then because the poet lingered still, he could not help but add, “sauf, évidemment, si tu veut nous joindre?”

Jehan fled at the offer to join them. Grantaire watched him go with both relief and something akin to disappointment – the chance for his crimes to be laid bare, the catharsis of discover, slipping from his grasp. A hand on his head, gentle but firm, however told him that his own duties were not quite over.

Later, he will pocket the additional money, given to him to cover 'expenses' and feel the burn of the thirty pieces of silver in his pocket. A paltry sum in return for the lifeblood of his friends sold to his masters for use as pawns in the diplomatic games of so-called Great Powers. That shame was an all-consuming beast, which even alcohol could but subdue a brief while.

His Lordship's final words echoed in his mind, “For God's sake R, don't forget to leave Paris before the start of the storm. It would be such a shame to loose such a good agents for such a trivial thing as a failed revolution”

He knew truly, that he would not follow his warning. Instead he would return to the Musain, listen to their foolhardy plans, drink what was offered and try to warn them, in increasingly desperate ways, of the hopelessness of their actions and the inevitable deaths that awaited them. Above all, he would pray to a God he did not believe in to grant him the one thing he knew he did not deserve. The right to die by their sides. If he was to have caused their deaths, then he could but hope he might share in it also.

**Author's Note:**

> Qui và? - Who goes?
> 
> Va t'en - Go away
> 
> Grantaire, ho, Grantaire, t'es chez toi? - Grantaire, hey, Grantaire, are you at home?  
> Les clochées ont sonnée midi, la soleil monte haute dans la ceil et le heur d'être tourjours au lit a bien écroulée... - The bells have rung midday, the sun climbs high in the sky and the hour to still be in bed is long past
> 
> Oh, je vous prie de me pardonner, j'ignorais que tu, vous étiez occupé, euh, je veut dire, que tu avais un visiteur, - Oh, please forgive me. I didn't know you, you (plural) were occupied, I mean to say, that you had a visiter
> 
> Je voulais te rendre ton Byron. Le voilà même. Je le déposse içi, et, euh, vous laisse tranquille? - wanted to give you back your Byron. Here it is. I'll put it down here and leave you in peace.
> 
> On te voit ce soir, à la Musain? Ne te sens pas obligée, évidemment, si tu as d'autre choose à faire... - Will we see you tonight, at the Musain? Don't feel you have to, of course, if you have other things to do
> 
> Oui, je serrais présent. Tu sais bien je manque rârement la chance d'entendre notre chef dans tout son gloire. Adieu alors, à ce soir, - Yes, I'll be there. You know I never pass up a chance to here our leader in all his glory. Goodbye then, until tonight.
> 
> sauf, évidemment, si tu veut nous joindre - except of course, if you want to join us


End file.
